Into the Dark
by ThatBlondeGuy
Summary: In this forthcoming, multi-chapter story, the Alexandrians face off against a sinister, fanatical cult intent on not only breaking Rick Grimes, but absorbing or destroying Alexandria. In the opening chapter, an enemy with a purpose watches them, tasked with one mission: to ensure Rick Grimes welcomes death. When darkness falls, not all will awake... (I do not own these characters)
1. Chapter 1

**"Into the Dark"**

He watched the darkened streets of Alexandria with great interest from his vantage in the tree. Obscured by the cloying, green leaves, bathed in shadow, he watched the goings-on, the muttering figures that walked the streets, with a muddled mixture of both contempt and envy.

Envy was not the Lord's way, for it was one of the Seven, and he pushed it down into the darkened depths of his soul, angry at himself for his predilection for sin.

He watched the shadowed figures as they walked the streets beneath the muted glow of the lamps, oblivious it seemed, to the Tribulation beyond their walls. They'd constructed their own Jericho, building ever closer to Babel, these Alexandrians, unrepentant and impious. They'd ignored the signs, the message of the Lord; they cared little for it and for this insolence, they'd need to be punished. He learned his lessons well, for he was one of the Hands, those who served, and sometimes the Lord necessitated that the Hand become a fist. The Speaker had told him what was required by the Flock, the gift the Lord would accept, just as He'd once asked Abraham to demonstrate his convictions in the form of his son, Isaac. He knew, he listened, and the Speaker was seldom ambiguous.

Then he saw her.

The black woman. The _Pretty_ Woman. She sat silently on her porch with the Tall Man who appeared to be her husband, leaning her head against him, her hand in his.

Again, he felt the sour twinge of envy and attempted to shake it away, as though a cloud of insects were set about his mind. So proud were these sinners in their impiety, he thought, and in their arrogance, had the audacity to love and be loved when they deserved it not. When the Lord had declared the beginning of Armageddon, when the archangel Gabriel's trumpet had sounded, they huddled together for comfort and warmth in the last of the fading light. Frivolous, but at once all-too compelling.

The Pretty Woman and the Tall Man loved each other. This was obvious to any with eyes. Even in the darkness about them, they seemed to shine, to _burn_ with it. He'd watched them for some time these last days as his vigil over the Alexandrians grew more rapt, as his study of them deepened. Never close enough to fully discern their conversations, never far enough that he couldn't memorize their routines. He'd been tasked by the Speaker with this holy mission and he'd not fail. This undertaking was to be a difficult one, but he would _not_ fail.

Still, to see the Pretty Woman and the Tall Man together as such, to experience, even from a distance, the intensity of the love they shared, he felt the black, yawning gulf of his own loneliness. He so desperately wanted to gather that warmth to himself, to devour it greedily, to shrink from the cold of this world and find some momentary solace.

He tightened his grip on the branch upon which he balanced himself.

 _"No,"_ he growled under his breath, shaking his dark-blonde hair from his eyes, attempting yet again to strangle that unpleasant emotion, "A Hand wants for nothing, a Hand needs for nothing, and shall take succor in the Lord."

It was a mantra he repeated several times throughout the day, the drone a comforting one, the words seemingly becoming _truer_ , the reality of them solidifying with each utterance. Even on the days when his slight frame quivered with hunger and his swollen belly ached, when the insects were gnawing at him, the words gave him comfort and solidarity. So strange how sin could disguise itself, cloak itself in something as pure as love…

Another figure approached the Pretty Woman and the Tall Man. The Hand, _Jacob_ , recognized this one immediately. His identity was evident in both his measured gait and the intensity radiating from him, an intensity that never seemed to ebb or fade; he was _always_ on edge, perpetually coiled and prepared to strike. It was the Cunning Man, the one with the crossbow. He worried Jacob, this Cunning Man, as his eyes were sharp and his instincts were finely-honed. Jacob had always been clever and fleet of foot, a man easy to miss given his slight stature and quiet, meek nature. But the Cunning Man, this one, he seemed like a lion, a beast tamed only _just_ enough not to tear off the arm that feeds it. Jacob couldn't enter those walls with the Cunning Man still inside, no, not as Daniel to this den of lions. The Cunning Man would _know._ Jacob found himself wondering, even now, if he didn't _already_ know, toying with Jacob at a distance, biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to level his crossbow at him and…

No.

He couldn't possibly know. Jacob had been too clever, too quiet, taking such great pains to remain unseen, sleeping during the day and slinking towards this den of iniquity moving from shadow to shadow at dusk or under cover of darkness. He'd avoided the _other_ woman, yet another woman with beauty that gnawed at Jacob, the _Sniper_ , she with the silenced rifle and the eyes so like a hawk. He'd so masterfully avoided her gaze he couldn't help the swell of pride in him.

If the Cunning Man had known, even _suspected_ , Jacob would likely be dead already. He'd tell the Sniper and she'd level those big, pretty brown eyes at Jacob (he'd admired her through his binoculars many times), see him through her scope, and he'd know nothing beyond that moment.

Jacob grinned, feeling his parched lips cracking. The icy pain returned his focus.

None of them knew.

The stillness of this night was both a boon to Jacob and quite unsettling. The sound of each of his minute movements seemed amplified, to reverberate through the windless calm.

However, despite the dull hum of the cicadas that seemed to orchestrate the backdrop of every moonrise, Jacob could dimly make out their voices.

"Just before dawn..," the Tall Man said, "You and me…got to…Eugene said…"

Fragmented and tinny, but Jacob knew of what they were speaking. At last, at long _last,_ his moment approached. Jacob attempted to stifle the giggle, but he simply couldn't help himself. His heart leapt in his chest, but no heads turned his direction.

The Tall Man and the Cunning Man would be patrolling for something at the behest of the Chubby Man and they'd leave in mere hours. Jacob had always liked the Chubby Man. He seemed earnest, for the most part, but evinced an awkwardness and diffidence that reminded Jacob very much of himself.

"More rounds," the Cunning Man said, "…eighty or… Gotta swing by the…"

Bullets. Jacob was convinced. The Alexandrians made their own bullets. This he'd gleaned as he crept close, _dangerously_ close, to the wall as he foraged one late afternoon. It was the Big Man who'd said it. The Big Man with the red hair was loud and garrulous. Jacob did _not_ care for him at all. Men like him used to torment Jacob _before_ the Tribulation. Unfair, so miserably unfair that the Big Man was one of those behind the safety of these walls, that the Sniper kissed him goodbye before she went about her watch. Unfair, but not even slightly surprising.

But his moment was so _soon!_

Jacob's belly ached at the thought of returning to the Flock, of eating his fill of anything he chose from the larder, of drifting off to sleep with a full belly and beneath the comfort of his blanket. It was approaching and quickly so! He'd have to move the car closer. Of course he would. Remove the branches and leaves he'd piled over it and move it nearer the gates. He'd need that to transport his cargo, that which the Flock would require, the gifts to the Lord. He'd finally return to the sanctity and security of the Church, smell the musty scent of the rectory in which he now slept as a Hand, and his vigil with Alexandria would be over.

Still, he couldn't help but feel that he'd somehow _miss_ them and that without the Alexandrians, there'd be an empty space in his existence. He'd not again partake in what they had, whatever the distance. This thought unnerved him more than he would have liked.

He heard the clear, confident voice of the Pretty Woman.

"Seven hours…not much…need to rest for…"

Ah, so they'd be going off to bed, then? The Tall Man and the Pretty Woman would be off to bed soon, no doubt to make love as they were frequently wont to do. Jacob understood the fear this world now inspired, why the Tall Man and the Pretty Woman cleaved so to each other, but the love they radiated… _that_ was simply beyond his ability to comprehend.

That love, the degree to which he felt alienated by it, that love which made him feel ever more distant from these people, was the only thing in Alexandria that ever made Jacob want to cry.

Again, he attempted to shake the thought away. A Hand needs for nothing.

The Pretty Woman and the Tall Man bid the Cunning Man farewell and went in doors, still hand in hand. Jacob scowled, even as he was inwardly elated.

He need only bide his time a few more hours, to listen for the telltale sound of a car starting within the gates, and slip in over the wall. It would be mere minutes of opportunity when the guard rotation changed, so he would have to be swift and quiet, but Jacob was exceptionally good at those things. Get the car, yes, turn off the lights, and creep along the road. THAT was the first order of business. Hide it JUST out of view, cover it up, and set about his task.

The wind gusted suddenly and in the distance, Jacob heard the rumble of thunder. The heaviness of the air promised rain and soon. Jacob smiled earnestly, his cracked lips now bleeding.

"Thank you, Lord," he whispered, "Thank you."

It couldn't be more perfect, now. The rain would muffle his sounds even further, deepen the darkness, and lull the Alexandrians. His moment was _coming!_ Oh, God was good. God was _very_ good!

The Speaker had been quite clear. The Alexandrians needed a lesson in penitence, particularly the Tall Man who, along with the Pretty Woman, lead them. The Tall Man _would_ bend knee and be contrite. He'd be given no choice but to do so. The Speaker would see to it, the Flock demanded it be so.

All that was needed in order to force the penitence of the Tall Man was to strike at the foundations of his sin.

Take it from him, have him be stripped to his foundation, and let him see the full face of his transgression.

"Take the Pretty Woman. Take her, and the One-Eyed Boy. Bring them before the Flock for purification." These words had been, more or less, precisely those of the Speaker.

When these two were purified by the Speaker, when they'd been _cleansed_ , when all the Tall Man loved was taken away, he would be contrite. He would be as the Job of this Tribulation, so said the Speaker. When their souls had been sent to the bosom of the Lord, the Tall Man would realize his sins, and when he knelt, all of Alexandria would kneel with him.

"There is no rest, sayeth the Lord," Jacob whispered, "Unto the wicked."

Jacob waited, he watched, and the swollen, dark clouds began to roll in over Alexandria…


	2. Chapter 2 The Road to Hell

" **The Road to Hell"**

Michonne listened to the thrumming of the rain against the window, that rain becoming steadily heavier as time wore on. Rick had kissed her tenderly before he'd dressed and left to meet Daryl, leaving ahead of the storm by mere minutes. She'd not been able to get back to sleep since he'd departed.

She smiled in spite of herself. She simply couldn't sleep peacefully anymore without Rick beside her, much as she couldn't sleep _deeply_ unless she'd recently felt him within her. The warmth of him, the hardness of him, the scent and sound of him as he moved in her…these were her lullabies now, the act of being loved like the steady, swampy rhythm of a metronome. _This_ Michonne, this new person, was not one she'd ever anticipated becoming, but she wasn't unwelcome or unwanted. She loved loving him, she loved _being_ loved.

It occurred to her that one day she and Rick might, as her long-dead friend Andrea put it, "catch pregnant". The thought of Andrea's bright, green eyes and warm smile suffused Michonne with a wave of deep, fetid regret. She forced it aside, however, as there was a very large, very _living_ concept before her. Leave the mourning of the lost for later. Mental pragmatism.

Not hours before, she'd been looking up at Rick, into his eyes, when she felt his seed enter her. She'd felt it many times before but, in that moment, what it could signify never seemed more real to her. He didn't close his eyes, he didn't moan, he simply stared into her eyes as his face flushed, his breath hitched, and his eyes shined. She'd stared back, hungry for that moment, wanting him to give her what was _hers._ He was _there_ with her in the truest sense of it, surrendering wholly to that moment, and once again Michonne found herself discovering something new, something that she'd never had or even known she _wanted._

It had gone beyond want, now; it had become _need._ She needed the warmth and intimacy of him, the solace he provided. She needed his blue eyes to find hers, his strong hands on her body, a body that ached for him. She was momentarily ashamed to admit it, but she _needed_ Rick Grimes and every aspect of the man he was.

"Damn romance novel," she softly chuckled to herself, "Thus spake Daryl Dixon."

But a child..? A child that she and Rick might have? One day, there'd be no more of those pills to be found, no more convenient little compacts in which they were contained. Nobody was left to slap together the proper chemical compounds needed to prevent her belly from growing, pressing against her bladder, waking her up at all hours of the night to pee, and making her hungry for everything in sight. But that was just an excuse, wasn't it? Could she have another baby? Was she willing to risk that? Hell, her adopted son and daughter, Carl and Judith, seemed to be thriving. Why _not_? If and when Rick was ready for another child, why couldn't _she_ be ready?

Michonne remembered the smile of the lost little boy, the small, _dead_ hand that had released so much pain and guilt and regret. It had broken her and at once, healed her, transformed her.

 _Andre._

Perhaps that grief was still too raw, too near yet. Oh, hell. Making excuses and hiding again? No, this was genuine. She sometimes had to second-guess herself, given that the _old_ Michonne would sometimes echo in her. Gone but not forgotten. No, not at _all._

She could, she resolved, have another child and perhaps one day, when the timing was right, that is precisely what she'd want with Rick. There'd already been the obligatory conversations among the women of Alexandria about how adorable a baby Michonne and Rick would produce and jokes about how mixed-race children invariably seemed to win out in the looks department. Michonne had laughed and made the appropriate social gestures, of course, but the idea was one she undertook with grave sincerity.

"Maybe," she whispered to the ceiling, "Maybe one day, maybe not, but I've got to stop manufacturing reasons to overanalyze. But, hey, the road to hell and all that…"

The ceiling had never been a terribly good conversationalist. Only-children often talk to themselves, someone had once told her, as a method of keeping themselves company, given that they were both prone to loneliness and, inexplicably, occasionally comforted by it.

Her mouth somewhat dry from those passionate kisses that still lingered like ghosts on her lips, Michonne wrapped herself in one of Rick's shirts and made her way to the bathroom. The scent of Rick emanated from the shirt and she found herself sighing, wishing he didn't have to leave. She just wanted him home so she could go back to sleep.

"Girl, when did you get so fucking _corny_?" She laughed softly, turning on the tap and reaching for her glass.

 _Something isn't right._

The primal instinct came forth, roaring, from the darkness at the back of her mind. It came forward, gnashing its teeth, slavering, snarling with bestial territoriality. Her eyes narrowed and her hearing sharpened.

 _Someone is in the house._

Naked from the waist down, she felt even _more_ so when her right hand instinctively shot to up to her shoulder, seeking the comfort of the katana's hilt.

In the bedroom. Against the nightstand. Shit, shit, shit. The primal voice growled low, forebodingly.

 _Judith. The baby. Carl._

Michonne sped through the hallway, soundlessly, at the thought of her children. The moments were fragmented between the bathroom and bedroom, like film cut into multiple shots and flung into the air, the world returning to solidarity when the familiar sound of unsheathed steel rang hungrily in the stillness.

 _Yesssssss…_ The primal voice hissed. _We are better now. Whole now._

"Yes," she whispered, "we _are._ "

She crept out of the bedroom, her stance narrow, the katana tight against her body. God damn this fucking house and these tight corridors! Striking in a narrow space with a long sword was tricky and there were too many surfaces in which to wedge the blade if you miscalculated. Tight, upward strokes, stabs only. Too many damn variables… Claustrophobia loomed.

 _Downstairs. It's downstairs._ He _is downstairs. Hunt._

She obeyed, creeping slowly down the stairs. She could smell it, now. This person, this interloper, was unambiguously _male_ and smelled horrible, a sickly scent of moldering vegetables. No, not just that. It was the scent of a Walker, something rotten.

Camouflage.

 _Our son. The boy. He has a gun. Let him hunt with us._

"There's no time," she mentally hissed at the voice, "Now shut up!"

Stepping onto the landing, she scanned the parlor, her vision sharpening in the gloom, listening to the drumming rain against the windows. She cursed the rain, knowing that machine gun rhythm could easily muffle any sound both within and without. She pricked her ears, listening for anything signifying… _anything._ Her pulse was steady in her ears, her heart dropping into what she thought of as a 'Killer's Rhythm'.

 _Thump, thump… Thump, thump…_

She felt a gust of cool air between her legs, smelled the heavy air, and realized the front door was open. She slithered to the foot of the steps, her eyes falling on the door. It was left slightly ajar and sitting directly in front of the door was an amorphous lump she surmised was a shirt. She prodded it with the blade. It was sticking to the floor and came up with a slight tearing sound. It was sodden with the coagulating blood of a Walker, streaked with gore, and spattered with bits of something she immediately recognized as intestine. The horror crept up the base of her spine like a serpent made of ice. The placement of the shirt, the wind…

 _Bait,_ the primal voice chided, _you've been_ baited.

That was when the hand shot around her and clamped over her mouth.

The scent flooded her senses now, cloying, sticky-sweet, seemingly submerging her thoughts in the fog of a fever. _His_ scent. The scent of the _other_.

She felt the needle break the skin at the base of her neck and before the pain could fully be processed, the rush of something into her, _through_ her.

Her limbs instantly became lead and she dropped the sword. This man, the other, deftly caught it before it hit the floor. So fast…so strong…but she could feel him behind her…how could so small a man…

"Hush, now, Pretty Woman," the small, soft voice said, soothingly, "Hush now. Jacob will take care of you."

Fading quickly, fighting the inevitable undertow threatening to sweep her away, perhaps forever, away from Judith, from Carl, from _Rick_ , this man, _Jacob_ , swiftly, silent as the grave, moved her and laid her on the couch. Her vision blurring, darkening, Michonne saw his face through his mop of greasy, sun-lightened, dark-blonde hair. His bright, jade-green eyes were sunken into their sockets, reddened, much like his sunburned face. His thin lips were a rictus of determination and veins stood out prominently from the dried, flaky skin of his scalp. Thousands of years ago, she thought deliriously, he may have been handsome. Now, he looked like a revenant, starving, his belly distended far from his sunken, hairless chest. His grimace disappeared and his face changed, shifted, and became a smile that again reminded her, thousands upon thousands of years ago, he had been his mother's angel.

"Our God is an awesome God," he cooed softly, "He reigns from heaven above…"

She thought of her childhood, of the songs her grandmother would sing, _that_ song, back when Michonne herself believed, and she whimpered. Help me, please, Nana, it can't be _now…_

"No, no," Jacob whispered consolingly, "None of that, now. Rest, Pretty Woman, for we have promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep." He smiled at her again, flashing his impossibly perfect teeth, the smile of a mauled cherub.

"Robert..," she droned seemingly from the bottom of the sea, "Frost…"

Darkness fell over Michonne.

Jacob stood from the couch, looking down at the Pretty Woman. The shirt she had worn rode up her long, muscular legs, those legs that seemed to be carved from glimmering onyx, and, bemused, Jacob was offered a view of her sex. He looked for a moment, thinking that even _this_ on her was pretty. He idly reached forward and tugged her shirt down, preserving her dignity, and quickly withdrew his hand as though she'd burn him. He couldn't help but chuckle at that. She _could_ burn him.

He understood how the Tall Man could stare, how he could worship her, how he could be so easily given to the temptations of the flesh. Oh, but she was _so_ lovely… He touched her hair gently, considering the texture so alien to him, and smiled.

The note. Of course! How could he be so absent-minded? He glanced at the Pretty Woman again. Of course he knew.

He'd taken great care in writing the note, in utilizing proper grammar, spelling, and making the lettering presentable. The Speaker always complimented him on his beautiful handwriting. Each word had been the word of the Speaker as Jacob took dictation and, when he'd finished, the Speaker looked it over approvingly.

He took the note from his pocket, the pristine paper of the envelope appearing as if by magic from black jeans which had worn in every conceivable area. He placed it purposefully on the center of the table at the feet of the couch. Adjacent the note, he placed the Pretty Woman's sword. The Tall Man would have no choice _but_ to see it and it was vital that he did so. Pleased with himself thus far, Jacob smiled, glancing to the staircase. From his pocket, he produced a small, silver case and opened it, eyeing the second syringe.

"And now, the One-Eyed Boy."

He moved up the stairs slowly, like a living liquid, readying the syringe, taking care to eject any excess oxygen from the chamber containing the amber liquid.

"Jesus loves me, this I know..," he sang softly, atonally, as he crept towards Carl's bedroom, "For the bible tells me so… Little ones to Him belong; they are weak but he is _strong…_ "


End file.
